


butterfly effect

by JoanofArc



Series: darejones [9]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Claire Temple is an angel, Danny Rand is trying his best, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Jessica as always is a mess, Slow Burn, Team as Family, and matt is half dead for the first chapter, as in... real slow, rating may change so just a heads up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-01-31 16:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18594901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanofArc/pseuds/JoanofArc
Summary: "they say he's not dead."jessica feels the wind leaving her lungs in one major punch and she chokes on it to the point where he reaches out to pat on her back until she stops. when it's over, the glare returns tenfold.or, the obligatory fix-it fic. set after the defenders and ignoring most subsequent shows.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing his before daredevil came out, and debated whether or not i should post it, given the fact that it's meant to be a full length fic. and then thought, what the hell, it's my sandbox, i get to do what i want.
> 
> ignores all shows that came out after the defenders, with the exception of jessica jones season 2. her mom did come back, and trish did shoot her, mainly because i don't want to write trish and i'm a sucker for angst.
> 
> comments are appreciated !

"heroes die" jessica's mind supplies, and isn't that the biggest fucking irony? she's three bottles in and the incessant buzzing in her head isn't any closer to stopping. perhaps it's linked to the hole she feels inside her chest and no, damn it, this wasn't supposed to happen. she wasn't supposed to like him. she wasn't supposed to like any of them, to be fair, but luke is luke and danny has the puppy dog thing down to a pat and matt -

she curses under her breath, tries to regulate her breathing. her left hand is shaking and hasn't stopped shaking since the incident, since the funeral that followed which she pointedly did not attend, because there was no body in that casket and she felt out of place among all those people who knew matthew murdock, all those people who loved and lost and mourned him. she doesn't know him. not really, not beyond the few days they chased around bad guys and his crazy zombie ex, but for some reason it still hurts. for some reason she did exactly what she was supposed not to do. there's a bitter taste in her mouth that has nothing to do with either alcohol or bile.

"heroes die," she mumbles drunkenly, because drunkenly in the only state of being she can be in right now. on the table, her phone lies dead, but she doesn't have the initiative to charge it anymore.

this was exactly why she didn't want to do this in the first place. why she never does this. why her only friends are ex addicts who can't take no for an answer. she doesn't need the liability. the constant nagging thought that something will happen, the impending doom of losing what little she has left.

jessica jones has never been an optimist.

and sure, they saved the city and they stopped the big bad and lots of people didn't die courtesy to them but at what cost? if she reaches out her hand, she can see the morning sun rays flickering between her fingers, tainting the webbing red, but she can't catch them and she can't hold them and it's all just fine and dandy until she remembers that everything solid she touches turns to dust.

trish would call this self pitying before forcing another therapy session down her throat, but sue her, jessica is tired and she deserves a little drunken inner rambling.

it doesn't really get better after that. days blend into each other, and everything tastes like dust. which is to be expected, because she's not trying to be better, not really. except she can't exactly wallow in guilt and liquor, no matter how much she tries. the world doesn't stop in its spinning just because she wants it to. it didn't stop after she escaped kilgrave and it doesn't stop now, but nobody can accuse her of not trying her best to make it.

as it is, people can accuse her of a lot of other things, regardless.

"jesus, jess, it smells like hell here." luke's voice is pained, and she manages a snort from where she curled up beneath one of the chairs in an attempt to block out the sunlight and its assault on her eyes. thumping footsteps which sound louder than they have any right to, and then the window opens and the winter air hits her bare arms. it's frigid and biting even if not exactly below freezing, reminds her it's been almost a month since she stepped foot outside for anything other than replenishing her liquor stock. she doesn't move from her place. she doesn't know if she can even if she wanted to.

"go 'way -" less coherent than intended, she reaches over for the half empty bottle of cheap whisky within her reach, but luke is faster. her fingers close around air, and when she opens up on eye to glower, she is met with his unimpressed stare.

"no."

"fuck you, then." it comes out harsh, choked, the edge in her tone cutting and poisonous, but he remains undeterred. there is something akin to pity in his gaze, which she hates, and it fuels the rage quietly simmering inside her chest, a constant companion. it makes her sick - or maybe that's just the hangover or whatever, but there's acid on her tongue and she swallows, closing her eyes again.

"you can't continue on like this, jess." his hand is warm on her cheek, strong when is wraps around her arm. he lifts her up with ease, and she feels her whole world tilting dangerously. it's not usual for her to remain drunk for long periods of time, not with how her metabolism basically forces it out of her system, but she has been drinking more than she usually does, and she still feels the effects.

still, she has no energy to fight him, not even as he carries her to the bed. jessica can't remember the last time someone tucked her in - possibly trish, but the memories are hazy at best and painful at worst. and the truth is, she actually starts relaxing with luke here, despite her struggle to remain in her bubble of misery. he has that effect on people, a bright splotch of sunshine in the otherwise gray landscape, a steady warmth where he tucks her hair behind her ear.

and then he goes and ruins it all by himself.

"matt wouldn't want you to -"

it's instantaneous. she shoots up in bed, headache forgotten, the glare in her gaze dark enough to penetrate his defences, and he actually simpers back like a damn dog being scolded.

"don't you fucking dare." a growl, although what she is telling him not to do remains ambiguous. he lifts his hands in a placating gesture, taking a step back, but she's not through with him. "do you think this is about that? that i give a fuck about murdock and his martyr ass?! god, luke, who do you think i am?"

it's an obvious lie, and they both know it. but she's not ready to admit that the spiral of despair always ends up with the image of matt stuck under all that rubble, dead and lifeless and gone. that her nightmares have shifted and morphed and its not kilgrave's voice she hears when she closes her eyes anymore. to admit as such would be a little too close to admitting she cares, and she can't afford the heartache of that particular line of thought.

"look, jess, i didn't come here to fight you. i'm worried. everyone is worried. don't you think you've punished yourself enough?"

she actually snorts at that, hollow and forced. rubs at her temples to give her hands something to do, when all she wants to do is crush her fist through someone's skull. and with luke so close to her, even with his particular brand of abilities, she doesn't want to risk it.

"you know where the door is. don't let it hit you in the ass when you go out."

of course, he doesn't leave. he just grabs a chair and sits down next to her bed, large frame seeming to fold in on itself. she knows he's trying to look less imposing, but she's not frail fucking china and it only makes everything worse.

"i don't need a damn babysitter -"

"there are rumours in the street." his voie is firmer this time and that, if not the words, prompt her to open her eyes and look at him again. her shoulder blade is digging painfully into the headboard and she focuses on that instead of the new wave of rising panic.

"i'm not doing that again, luke - i don't care what danny says, i don't care what you say, i'm no superhero and i have no intention of ever becoming one, not -"

"they say he's not dead."

jessica feels the wind leaving her lungs in one major punch and she chokes on it to the point where he reaches out to pat on her back until she stops. when it's over, the glare returns tenfold.

no. if this is some sick joke he tries to pull on her, she's not going to bite. hope is a deadly thing in her life and she's reminded viscerally of one specific moment when she thought she saw him when being kicked out of yet another bar, a flash in her peripheral vision, when she called out to him only to get silence in return. 

she's not doing this. she's not going to cling on to some misguided idea, to bow her ear to every little mention of him out there. she can't. 

"get. the fuck. out."

luke is smart enough not to push. he's always been eerily good at knowing exactly when to stop when it comes to her, and, was she in a better mental state, she would have been able to appreciate the irony.

 as it is, he merely lifts his hands in that placating gesture again, walks towards the exit with a suffering sigh.

"just... please take care of yourself, jess. we miss you and we miss him too. you don't have to do this alone."

he's gone before she gets to say anything in return, but she shouts a couple colourful curses in the direction of the door for good measure.

as she stumbles out of bed to snatch the bottle of whiskey she had been denied earlier, she spies her scarf in the corner of the room and hates herself for the way her heart twinges at the sight, at the knowledge that were she to bring it close to her face and inhale, it wouldn't be his scent imprinted in the fabric anymore. she does it anyway, and then swallow the remaining alcohol in one go just to make sure she's made her point.

she's going to get drunk again and forget about luke's words and it's gonna be fine.

she's going to spiral back to the bottom of the abyss, from where she can't possibly get any lower, and tune out the world around her until its nothing but a faint blur.

"heroes die," she hisses at the scarf, as if it can hear the venom in her tone, and succumbs to the dull ache the alcohol brings.

it lasts a total of three days. her phone is still dead and there's still a bottle of something in her hand, but damn it, luke knows her well. knows her better than she thought he did, which brings a new layer of guilt to the very, very long list of things that are fucked up about this world. because he knows her despite everything, because he was supposed to hate her and he doesn't.

but that's another can of worms she is not ready to open up, not right now, so she takes a swing from the bottle and drops her body in the chair at the desk. her laptop purrs under her fingers and she has the good grace to plug in the charger, even if she doesn't turn on her phone.

because damn it, jessica jones is a damn good p.i. and she cannot stop the itch at the back of her skull telling her to investigate, to find out, nor can she squash out the odd feeling in her chest when she allows herself to entertain the idea that the rumours might be... true.

a sigh passes through clenched teeth. she steeples her fingers together, tries to regulate her breaths before they spiral out of control again before rolling back her shoulders. the joints pop with a satisfying sound, and she cracks her knuckles too, just so she can warn off some of the anxious energy coursing through her system. it doesn't really work, but it's a start.

it feels good to be back, in an inherently selfish way, and she gets back into routine with ease.

"like riding a fucking bike," murmured under her breath, with no real malice. there is not much out there, but she expected that. what she finds, however, is enough to get that feeling inside her chest grow, like weeds after rain, and it feels simultaneously like they're choking her up as they fill up her lungs and like she can breathe again for the first time in weeks. she doesn't know what to do with that feeling, so she pushes it away, focuses on gathering information, asking the right people the right questions. maybe luke was onto something when he told her - even if this doesn't pan out, it's a reminder that work keeps her mind busy enough for it not to dwell.

she doesn't know what she would do if this doesn't pan out though. so she doubles up her effort, buys enough energy drinks to sustain her for a week, and turns on her phone.

*

in the end, jessica doesn't have to find him. all her leads were met with dead ends and a half deluded story from a drug addict about a red angel walking a dog anyway. 

she must have passed out whilst typing, because her neck is stiff and her back protests, and the noises that woke her take a moment for her to process. when they do, she jumps up from the chair, fingers curled into fists and ready to attack whoever it is...

only to clench tighter at the sight of him. matt is dressed in a baggy shirt and sweatpants out of all things and it would be funny if she wasn't so devastatingly, if rationally, mad at him right now. he's in her doorway, and she's pretty sure this is not one of her alcohol induced delusions or the dreams she's been having, because her nails dig into her palms harshly enough to cut. 

"you fucker -" she goes to swing at him, teeth gritting together so tightly it hurts, but then stops, because he looks about five seconds away from collapsing. he's pallid and shaky, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead, pooling in the sharp hollow of his collarbone. he's thinner too, to the point where she thinks that if she were to touch his side, she would feel ribs.

the anger evaporates in a second. of course, he knows that, can probably read every emotion she's feeling, even it she can't quite understand the mechanics of that, but his demeanor doesn't change. he remains, quivering and panting in her doorway.

which prompts her to act. really funny how quick she is to come to his aid, but it's not like anyone else needs to know about it.

"you look like crap, murdock. been though hell recently?"

he laughs, a sardonic little thing that sounds as forced as it comes, and she clenches her fists tighter, throwing a glare that is totally wasted on him. he doesn't have his glasses and his unseeing gaze is fixed on her, but she knows it doesn't have the desired effect with how he doesn't flinch back. 

rather, and here's the fucking catch, he stumbles forward, as if gravity has finally caught up with him as the last of his strength drains out. she barely catches him in time and, what do you know, she can feel his ribs where she presses her hands over his side to keep him upright. 

"shit. fuck. dammit, murdock, you didn't come all the fucking way here to die on me." lacking bedside manner is the last of their problems right now, but she manages to move him to her bed with ease. even if he wasn't so thin, lifting him up would provide no difficulty, but as it is, he barely weighs anything 

"jess -" his voice is rough and scratchy, like he's trying to speak through gravel. she grits her teeth, fingers nervously fluttering over his chest before deciding she doesn't even want to know what's beneath the shirt. it's bulky in places where it shouldn't, so she suspects he's relatively well bandaged, but she's no expert.

a building collapsed over him. 

there's really no guide on how to fix the kind of damage that does. 

"don't - don't fucking talk, matt. i'm gonna call claire, she'll know what to do."

he blinks up at her once, twice, before giving a minute nod. its all permission she needs, not that she needs any, before stomping off to find her (thankfully charged) phone.

it goes as well as one would expect it.

within twenty minutes, her living room is overflowing with people, and claire has finished yelling at matt and went down to business. 

jessica feels jittery, pacing the length of the room, while danny and colleen whisper among themselves on her thorn couch, knees pressed together and heads bowed.

she's so strung up she almost jumps out of her skin when a hand closes around the ball of her shoulder. luke watches her with a steady gaze, and that tilt of his head which means business. anyone less would recoil under the weigh of it. not jessica.

"how did you find him?"

a snort passes through clenched teeth. she pries his hand away from her shoulder, but by now every pair of eye is on her.

"i didn't. he came here and then collapsed. i dont know how or why and i'd really fucking appreciate it if you would back off."

but luke is undeterred. he knows she is all bark and no bite now, that she needs to hide behind sarcasm and cutting wit to pretend she's not worrying, that she doesn't care. so his hand finds her shoulder again, firmer this time, and his head ducks to seek out her gaze.

"nobody is accusing you of anything, jess. we're just trying to piece things together until matt is well enough to tell us."

an useless feat, fact evident to all four of them, but jess understands the need to make sense of the mess they are in. dead men don't just show up at your doorstep like that.

danny's voice is soft when he speaks, in the manner in which jessica has learned that he's trying to sound as placating as possible in case of offence. 

"are we sure the hand didn't -"

"no." she snaps. which is only half a lie - they don't know anything for sure, won't know anything for sure until he's awake and capable of speech that involves more than a couple slurred words and her name, on repeat, like a prayer that leaves her feeling awfully empty.

"jess, listen..." luke, this time, and she actually pushes him back, glares at both him and danny, then at colleen just because she's there. at least colleen has the good grace to look a little sheepish.

"no, he's not controlled by the hand. for fuck's sake, do you think they'd send him here to us in anything less than peak health? and anyway, send him here to what? kill us? not a damn chance."

the silence that follows is deafening. they can hear claire in the bedroom, matt's pained gasps. her glare doesn't diminish, but she stomps to the kitchen to grab a bottle of whiskey, twists off the cap and takes two big gulps in one long, fluid movement.

luke follows her, of course, but she doesn't look at him. until he starts talking.

"jessica, you're being emotional -"

wrong move. she hears danny's gasp, can practically feel colleen's sigh, even as time seems to move in slow motion. her fingers curl tight into luke's shirt, the bottle cracking under the pressure the vise her fingers make.

"call me emotional again and i'll shove this bottle so far up your ass you'll cry shards." the growl in her voice is deadly, daring, but he remains motionless, a mountain in the face of her biting wind.

and really, she shouldn't feel this defensive over it, but she's tired and she didn't ask for any of this. one zombie super powerful person to deal with is enough for a couple lifetimes at least. they defeated the hand. she's not going through this again.

on paper, that line of thought is sound. but out loud, luke wouldn't need murdock's spidey senses to know she'd be lying. so she doesn't say anything else, only tightens her hold on his shirt, body arched ready for attack. he's staring back at her, not shying away, and it only serves to piss her off more. 

"hey! knock it off, guys! patching up one of you is enough for today."

claire, ever the voice of reason. jessica steps back, taking another swing from the bottle before turning around, raising an eyebrow expectantly. claire sighs, but wipes her hands on her jeans, rolling back a shoulder. the shift in attention means that jess can breathe again, without the others staring at her like she's goimg to explode any minute.

"he's asleep. a couple broken ribs and some cuts but he's not bleeding internally at least and he's in a better shape than he should be."

tension rolls from the room like smoke dissipating into the winter air. claire looks exhausted, haunted too, but at least she's not yelling anymore. if there's one person who scares even jessica, it's claire temple. 

"there's nothing left to do but wait. i changed his bandages and gave him something for the pain," she moves to stand next to luke, as if physically putting herself between him and jessica. it's not jealousy, jess knows, but merely an attempt to keep them from going at each other's throats again. it works, because she only sighs, tries to be inconspicuous in peeking through the open doorway into her bedroom.

she fails, obviously. but she wasn't trying too hard.

"i'm going home," claire continues, a knowing smile on her lips, and jess turns around so fast it almost gives her whiplash.

"wait. what if he wakes up? what if he starts getting worse? what the fuck am i supposed to do when he's delirious and dying?"

"he's not going to get worse, jess. he only needs to take the pain meds every five hours, and not even you can get that wrong."

the statement stings, but only a little.

"hang on a minute, i never agreed i'll play nursemaid for devil boy in there. i never agreed to this damn family reunion either, for the record."

claire sighs, but it's good natured. she's good for luke - a thought which makes her heart clench painfully, but it's easier to bear now than it was months ago.

"i can take him!" danny chimes in, all sunshine and careless selflessness and jessica feels her fists clench. he's the type of guy to do that, she knows. set everything aside for the sake of helping a friend, has done it before for all of them without even thinking about it, and she feels strangely miffed by the thought. colleen is trying to hold him back, a hand on his arm, small but insanely powerful, but he's practically vibrating out of his skin. 

"not a chance, iron dude. you'll make a big deal out of it and make him feel indebted to you for fucking ever." 

he visibly deflates, but only marginally. rolling with the punches is another thing danny rand can artfully do. 

still, there are too many people in her apartment. she can deal with one superpowered idiot at a time, but these group meetings always leave her more exhausted than they have any right to. so she sighs again, shoves her fingers into thee pockets of her jeans. 

"just... tell me what pills to give him." 

claire's smile is beatific.

*

foggy drops by later - claire must have called him, because jessica sure as hell didn't. she's taken to watching over matt from the chair near the bed, jumping at every noise and twitch, but after two hours of that, she's come to the conclusion that yes, claire was right and yes, matt is stable.

when he does wake up, it's as if from a nightmare, and she can't say she blames him. he says her name, twists and turns until she lets him hold her hand, and then falls back asleep. 

"is he..." there is fear in nelson's voice, and jessica wonders how many times did he have to fear that matt was dead. the thought tastes sour on her tongue, so she stands up, motions for him to take her place.

he throws her a grateful look over his shoulder, which she promptly ignores. 

"he's alive, but -" 

"how?"

her glare is half hearted. she's not really bothered by it, anyway. it's been a stressful couple of months.

"don't know. he came here, half dead, and collapsed. someone took care of his injuries though, but claire said they had no medical expertise."

he looks painted then, and jessica thinks she knows what question is going to follow. 

"why here, though? why came to you? why not..."

 _to me,_ he doesn't say, but the words hang between them like the blade of a guillotine. if she stretches a little, it would nick at her fingertips. she decides not to point out to it, though, because it's the question she's been asking herself a lot lately, and only gives a tired sigh. at least nelson looks a little guilty.

"look, i don't know. we can't know anything for sure until he wakes up and is coherent. you can interrogate him then. i'm going to take a shower. you're gonna be okay?"

he waves her off, and jessica takes one last look at matt, pale and small beneath all the blankets she had piled on top of him. 

the water feels nice against her skin. it washes away the sweat and grime and the stench of alcohol clinging to her pores, scalding and almost painful. she hadn't realised how much she needed this. hadn't realised how much she needed to let the situation sink in, to realise that this is not one of her dreams. 

matt is alive, and he's hurt, and she hadn't killed him. it brings little comfort, but she's learned to take every little bit that life gives her. 

it doesn't ease the guilt, though, but she's used to the guilt. it's been constant companion to her ever since her parents died, and it seems only to grow over the years. but it's less painful to breathe, and her chest doesn't feel like it's going to cave in on itself anymore. 

when she gets out, dressed in fresh clothes and feeling a little less like death, foggy hasn't moved, but both his hands are holding on to one of matt's. he's saying something under his breath, and jessica strains a little to hear that it's a prayer. 

the air feels too charged, too personal, so she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

karen page arrives half an hour later, much like a hurricane would. jessica can tell she has been crying by the redness around her eyes, and she doesn't say anything, only points towards the door where matt and foggy lie.

there are hushed whispers behind the closed door, as well as whisper-yelling, but she forces her curiosity down, busying herself with making some tea. 

karen lasts in there only ten minutes before storming out, and jessica stops her from rushing out with a hand on the arm.

"i -" her eyes are wild, moving to focus on everything that isn't jessica's face. "i cant do this. i can't see him like this." 

in any other situation, maybe jessica would feel some kind of sympathy for the woman. but, as it is, with matt unconscious in her bed, having gone through literal hell and back, she can't bring herself to feel any. 

"hey, calm the fuck down! i didn't ask for this either, but you don't see me bailing on his ass."

karen looks as if she got slapped, but then snatches her arm back from jessica's grasp, rushing towards the door. 

"you don't understand. i need to go."

she watches her do just that, shoulders slumping, until the tea pot starts whistling loudly. 

"he looks dead," nelson's voice comes from the doorway. she spills hot water on her hand, startled, curses under her breath. 

"yeah, well, he's fucking not!"

the vitriol in her voice seems to surprise nelson, which annoys her quite a bit. but then he's smiling, tired and small. 

"thank you. if you need anything -" 

"i don't. i've got it covered." 

she's aware that she's spilling her anger towards page on nelson, but can't bring herself to care. he seems to understand that, though, because as he walks towards the door, he presses a hand against her back. 

"call me. thank you."

and then it's back to being just the two of them, jessica and the man who simply cannot stay dead. 


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to write, i was super busy with finals and couldn't fit in writing among all that.  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter, and remember, feedback makes writers happy <3

jessica had been dozing in and out of sleep, curled up in the chair by his bed. she can't really explain why she feels the need to watch over him - calling claire had once again confirmed that he can't get any worse as long as she's careful with when to give him the medicine, and she doesn't _need_ to be here.

she should take a case. call nelson to watch over matt while she's away. maybe danny, if the options are limited. 

she doesn't. instead, muscles protesting over the uncomfortable position, she watches over him like a hawk. 

maybe it's the fact that this doesn't feel real. in her experience, people coming back from the dead always comes with a twist, a way to turn something which resembles happiness into a nightmare. or... it's plain and simple a nightmare to begin with.

that, or the guilt keeps her rooted in the very spot, and she's afraid that it she leaves for too long, he's going to stop breathing. 

(she checks his heartbeat periodically. jams a finger between the delicate bones in his wrist and holds her breath until her own heartbeat calms down. at some point, she stops letting go of his hand.)

the first time he wakes up it's three in the morning and he's delirious. he keeps calling out her name, keeps muttering about elektra, too, and she doesn't know what to do. 

she's been reading on her phone about one of her potential clients - stalking his facebook and twitter and all the good stuff - when she hears the whimper, and stops immediately. 

there are beads of sweat on his forehead, and he's twisting and turning, almost as if he can't find a comfortable place to sit, or he's itching to move because he's been laying down for too long. her first instinct is to call claire, because she doesn't know what to do with this, but it's late and he doesn't look like he's dying. 

hopefully. 

so she gives him something for the pain, and nearly has a heart attack when he catches her hand, tugging at it to lie against his forehead. it's cold, she reasons, trying to stop the panic from overflowing, to lock it back up in the neat little box she has built for it ever since he stumbled into her apartment. 

touch seems to calm him down, so she scoots closer, lets her fingers comb through his hair until he's not wincing at every sound anymore. 

"oh, saint matthew..." her voice carries a fondness she did not expect, but she's so focused on the raise and fall of his chest to notice the way his lips twitch into a smile. "what the fuck do i do with you?" 

she falls asleep with her head on the mattress, and her hand firmly around his, like a promise that she's going to protect him from whatever is chasing him in his dreams. 

*

"you need to eat something," colleen tells her, and the tone of her voice allows for no refusal. 

jessica snorts, shaking the bottle of alcohol, but stops when she's faced with a glare. she likes colleen - and is starting to understand how she can keep danny under control. 

it's just her and claire this morning. nelson and page have stopped by earlier, and karen had apologised, which... yeah, okay, fine, it's not jessica's ex laying in that bed. but it cleared up the air, and maybe that's what matters too. 

claire is with matt, changing his bandages and checking his injuries. she can hear hushed mumbles from the half open door, but doesn't strain to listen. 

"you don't even have a cooking pan?!" it's exasperation now, and jessica shrugs unapologetically. 

"i don't do much cooking. never needed one." 

"but jess! everyone needs a pan. it's like... household rule number one!" 

she rolls her eyes at that, taking another swing from the bottle before it gets snatched away. what's with all the people in her life and depriving her of normalcy? she was fine before meeting all of them, if by 'fine' you mean completely miserable, but at least then she could drown her demons in alcohol without being judged. 

"i have crackers and ketchup. maybe some cereals if you look hard enough." 

"crackers and ke-!" 

"he's stable." 

saved by the bell. both women turn to look at claire, shoulders slumping in unison. 

"but colleen is right -" the traitor says, grinning at the way jessica tenses, and throws her gloves into the trash, "- i can't deal with him and with _you_ if you faint from anemia." 

"i'm not going to fucking faint," comes the petulant reply, but claire and colleen have stopped listening, getting busy in the kitchen and talking in hushed voices. 

maybe she should go check on matt. claire said he's fine, but what if he isn't, what if he - 

"jessica." 

her gaze snaps at claire from where it had drifted towards the door, and she bites down on her lip to keep the snarky remark from surfacing. truth is, she's not used to this. to having a support system in place. but somehow, between kicking undead ninja ass and her mother's death, this little group of weirdos has decided that she's part of their family. the realisation feels a little hallow. 

claire's smile is gentle, like she can read her mind. she shouldn't be kind to her. not after what she's done to luke. not after what she's done to matt. but the alternative is far more grim, and she doesn't want to think about it. 

"he's fine. who's the trained nurse?" 

"she is," colleen quips, a bag of rice having magically appeared in her hand. jessica can't remember the last time she's bought any kind of food that didn't come in a jar. 

"i am," claire confirms, then sighs when the tension in jessica's shoulders remains as it is. "look - a building fell on him. but he's survived a lot of shit. he's going to survive this too. he's thougher than he looks. why don't you go get some air? we've got it covered." 

she knows dismissal when she sees it, but the bitter tang of anger never comes. it's been a rough couple of months, everything considered, but she doesn't know what to do with gratitude. she doesn't know how to accept it without waiting for a catch. and there's always a catch. 

"doctor's orders." 

it's a losing battle. she could argue, but then she'd risk getting kicked out of her own home. bunch of hypocrites, all of them. 

"fine." the leather jacket brings a little comfort as she shrugs it on, fingers already digging into the pockets to pull at the threads. nervour habit. "but if he dies while i'm gone -" 

"he's not going to die." claire's turn to be exasperated, but she shakes her head with a smile. "go buy groceries. he's going to be fine, but you need to eat." 

the air is cold against her skin. it feels like thousand of needles piercing through, and she indulges in a shiver, grits her teeth. the walk to the bodega down the street is familiar, but she veers right, tries not to wince back at the neon brightness of the supermarket. 

groceries. food. things she hasn't concerned herself with, things that are so down her list of priorities they get forgotten. this is the way things are when your life consists on megalomaniac purple assholes and zombies from hell. 

but claire was right - of course. the walk clears her head for the first time in forever, allows for a certain type of clarity that doesn't come often.

(that, or it's the lack of alcohol in her system.) 

when she gets back home, actual food in her bags, colleen and claire are already gone, and there's cooked food still hot in a new pan on her stove. 

maybe this is what being part of a family is like - her previous experience with one dysfunctional at best. she has to suck it up and get used to it. 

*

"the nuns," he begins with the cadence of someone older than time itself, and suddenly jessica feels like she's intruding, like she's not supposed to be privy of this, even when his attention is directed at her. it's an odd sort of sempiternal existence, an odd sort of awareness she is unsure if she likes. he senses her distress, of course, because his fingers find her own and squeeze, once.

she scoffs, feigning annoyance, but curls her fingers around his as well.

"the nuns did their best they could."

and then he tells her everything. how elektra got him to the steps of the orphanage he had grown up in. how it was a miracle he survived all that, that he's still breathing. how he's been in a coma for months, but couldn't endanger the people he loved again by going to the hospital, not when he's legally dead.

how his mother was there. his mother, the woman who abandoned him as a child. that set him off, prompted him to turn up in her apartment. jessica can relate.

but the way he speaks, the way his senses are all trained on her makes her uncomfortable. because he talks like it's confession, like she's the holy fucking communion and she has the power to absolve him of all his sins. for a moment, she feels ridiculously like how the cardboard, neon decorated jesus in the window of a run down shop must be feeling, if he could feel anything. cheap. glorified. fake.

he's still holding her hand, and the silence stretches on between them, heavy and painful. he just laid himself bare at her feet and it feels wrong, forced somehow. it shouldn't be her sitting here with him. it should be claire or his pretty blonde friend or his idiot lawyer one, people who care about him. jessica barely knows him. it's a mantra she keeps telling herself, has kept telling herself since the monumental feeling of loss took over when he died but didn't, and it worked just fine almost never.

but he's here, acting like she's his salvation and it hurts. she can't save anyone. she's a mess, such a fucking mess. can't he see that everything she touches dies? that she's no holy ghost, she's no god's messenger. she's the damn plague.

"i -" her voice is rough. alien to her own ears. she snatches back her hand, cradling it with the other one to make up for the loss of his warmth. "i need some air."

his face falls. he looks exactly like a little kid would when you told him you ran over his puppy with your car. for exactly thirty seconds, the guilt eats up at her and she wants to reach out again, to take his hand in hers. he hasn't moved his, and it stays, palm up and uncertain, atop the bed sheets claire had tucked around him like a good nurse.

then the survivor instincts kick in and the urge to flee is so overwhelming she nearly trips over the chair in her attempt to stand up. he looks more dejected by the second, but her heart is beating so fast she can't hear anything over the sound of it, can't focus on anything but the need to put some space between them.

she calls luke when she's far away enough that matt's freaky radar senses wouldn't be able to pick her up. her palms ache from the landing, but her grip on the phone is steady.

"i don't think i can do this," she says, in lieu of a greeting. across the line, she can hear a sigh.

"jess -" 

"no, you don't get it. he's not angry at me, luke. he's not fucking angry, and i don't..."

"i'm gonna stop you right there, jones."

there's a shuffling noise from his end, then the sound of a door opening and closing. jessica closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. 

"nobody is angry at you, because there's nothing to be angry about. well, if you don't count your temper and -" 

"not helping." 

another sigh, like he's asking the heavens for strength. she has to fight back a smile, even though he wouldn't be able to see it. 

"you think matt isn't feeling guilty? he's the one who died on all of us, jess. imagine how that feels like. but you're both too damn stubborn to actually admit it, and it's driving all of us insane. what happened wasn't your fault, woman. you gotta start letting this sink in before it drives you crazy."

she heaves out a laugh, but it's straining. count on luke to beat some sense into her, even if she knows he's trying to cope with this as well.

they weren't meant to team up like this. to become... friends. but they did, and now all of them have to reap the consequences. 

because jessica knows, deep down, that there's no getting rid of them. luke and matt and danny. claire and colleen too. 

"what do I do, luke?"

"you stop fucking running from your problems. you go back in there, and start working on a case. because it's what you do best. he's not gonna die again. but he needs us. he ain't gonna ask for it, but he needs us."

she empties her lungs in a big sigh, feels her shoulders slumping, and then, quietly, "okay. you're right." 

luke laughs, the sound bringing her comfort in some weird, unexplainable way. 

"of course i'm fucking right." a pause, "are we sure that the hand -" 

"hanging up on you now, asshole." 


	3. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst fest ahead. matt and jess talk about... feelings.  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as i did writing it <3

jessica jones is like a hurricane. the type that comes without a warning and destroys everything in its path. but there's beauty in destruction. beauty in the way people keep going even in the face or catastrophe.

matt has lived his whole life in the eye of the storm. all that whirlwind of smells and noises, winds rough like sandpaper against his skin.

she is a splotch of colour in his otherwise perpetual darkness, the only thing he can focus on between feverish delirium and aggravating numbness.

claire says this, too, shall pass, and he has long learned to take her words as gospel. foggy asks him when he's going to come home. 

he does not know. he does not want to know. 

karen sits in silence, watching him for hours, before standing up and leaving without a word. sometimes, she tells him about an article she's writing, but it feels strained. something between them has broken. he's not sure he can fix it. 

and then there's jessica, loud and brash and masking her fear in whiskey and annoyance. his guardian angel, watching over him. he's pretty sure she'll punch him if he says that out loud, though. 

*

she finds him in the bathroom one evening. judging by the way the path from the bed to said bathroom looks, a chair upturned and door half open, her best guess is that he had dragged himself there. 

he's making progress, but she can tell it's all too slow for him. it's been two weeks since he crashed in her arms, and he's still standing on unsteady feet. 

"what are you doing." her voice is flat - there's no infliction that would indicate a question, arms crossed over her chest. 

he tilts his head in that way that always reminds her of a dog, and she's sure that if his ears could, they would have perked up at the sound of her voice. the fact that he hadn't picked up on her entering the apartment before that is disconcerting, but she's not going to voice it.

"i was, ah -" he sways a little, knuckles going white with the grip he has on the sink. jessica doesn't rush to his side, but her fingers twitch, like they want to reach out for him on their own.

"i was gonna take a shower."

"matt..." there is something in the tone of voice she can't quite place, fragile and unyielding. he sighs, bows his head. 

"i just - i should be able to do it, alright? i mean, it's been long enough and..."

her fingers closing around his arm shut him up. he's still gripping the sink, but his shoulders relax marginally.

"matt." firmer this time, although no harsher. "a fucking building fell on you. nobody's gonna judge you if you take things slow. actually, claire would have a total of zero heart attacks as opposed to the five a day she has now, if you did." 

he looks a little sheepish, half a smile tugging at chapped lips. she nudges him with an elbow, runs her thumb over his still healing knuckles. 

"you can't rush this. no matter how fucking stubborn you are." 

"i know, i know, but - uh... what are you doing?"

her shirt hits the floor, and then her jeans. she's never been one to be prude, and it's not like matt can see her naked. she's choosing to ignore it anyway, because this is strange enough as it is. 

(she's done it for malcolm too, back when he was still struggling to get clean and he'd vomited all over the bathroom floor. when she'd held him against the cold granite, there was a flash of remembrance, a longing for the brother lost so long ago. stunted memories of a life that didn't feel like her own. that still don't feel like her own.) 

"you're taking a shower," she says, pulling up his shirt, like it's the most natural thing to say. he's too confused to correct her, so she runs with it. "i gotta change your bandages anyway."

the bandages, as it is, are fresh. claire had changed them not even two hours ago. but he doesn't call her out, instead letting her undress him.

"jess -" 

"shut it, devil boy. it's only weird if you make it weird. so don't." 

his body is a mess of black and blue. bruised ribs, bruised skin, bruised heart. there are scars upon scars, a stitched history etched in his skin, like he's afraid he won't be able to remember it if it's not carved there, if he can't run his fingers over them and decipher their meaning. she wonders if it makes up for what he cannot see. if he needs muscle memory and the imprint of something against the tips of his fingers. 

such thoughts are not good to dwell upon, do jessica helps him in the shower, checks the water on her wrist until it goes warm. 

she's not gentle - she holds him in the only way she knows how. unapologetic, the strength of her body humming beneath her skin like a cat purring. it's easy to forget that a body so small has so much power, that it's so effortless for her to breathe in a world where superhero means sending cars flying. that she's not one of them, despite the fact that she is.

her shampoo smells like strawberries, perhaps the only thing she owns that is even remotely feminine, and she sees the way his lips twitch when she stretches to rub it in his hair. the way that same smirk softens when she runs her fingers over the slashes at his collarbones.

"so we're seeing each other naked now?"

it gets him a snort, which is a very bad idea, because on the inhale she gets a lungul of water and spends the following two minutes trying to choke it out. 

he's laughing, though, and it's a sound she's never heard before. it's not the wry chuckle she stole from him while working together before the end and subsequent resurrection. back then, he'd been hollowed out, like his soul had just decided to check out and fucking leave.

it feels like a gift, almost, like she's privy to a secret. she doesn't know what to do with it.

"i said not to make this weird, asshole."

her own shower is perfunctory. she washes her hair with the expert ease of someone who doesn't care, while he's busy breathing heavily propped against the wall. it's the first time he's stood up for a significant amount of time, and, all things considered, he's doing good. 

"i'm gonna carry you to bed, and if you complain i'm gonna accidentally miss and drop you out the window, got it?"

they both know it's an empty thread, but he looks relieved behind the roll of unseeing eyes. maybe this whole thing was more strenuous that he let on, despite the fact that she's done all the work.

he holds onto her as she gets them out, as she towels the both of them dry. 

the new bandages look too white against his skin, making him seem paler somehow. a reminder of almost death. he stays silent, lets her fuss over him until she's satisfied.

but jessica jones is a damn good private investigator. and regardless, she can see through him almost too easily. 

"spill, murdock. you dragged yourself to my bathroom, and now you're all sad. who kicked your puppy?"

he doesn't answer, so she busies herself with getting him into some sweatpants foggy had brought, and then getting dressed herself. she doesn't mind the silence, not when the absence of it would mean talking about emotions. what she minds, though, is the fact that something is eating at him. 

it shouldn't. 

it does. 

"what if..." frail, tentative. his fingers curl into the sheets on the bed, chin burrowed down into his own chest. he looks almost defeated, and something in jessica's chest rattles at the bars. "what if it never gets better?"

"are you serious? that's what you're worrying about? murdock, you've made more progress in two weeks than -"

"i can't hear."

she inhales, then somehow forgets to exhale. like the air is trapped in her lungs and she can't get it out. he grows quiet too, and the silence stretches between them like an elastic waiting to snap. the rush of adrenaline at the prospect of the sting from the impact makes her dizzy.

"uh... what?"

her body falls on the mattress next to him and, dumbly, she reaches out for his hand. his thumb slots itself between the delicate bones of her wrist. fight or flight should have kicked in by now, but it doesn't - her heart remains oddly steady. 

"i... can't hear. not in the way -" a sharp intake of a breath, his eyes squeezing shut, "not in the way i used to."

"dude, you just gotta..." 

"give it time. yeah, i know. it's all everyone's been telling me. you, claire, foggy... my mom." he laughs, but it's bitter. she can almost taste it in the air as she inhales. "but, you know... i used to think that this was a gift from god. hearing people's prayers. they'd call out for him and i'd be his hand... doing what he needed me to do. i've had a lot of time to think, jess. and part of me... part of who i was died in midland that day."

jessica has never been the religious type. sure, when she was little, mom and dad would take her and phillip to church on mass, but that was it. she's not an expert on organised religion of any kind. but she understands why people need it. as a teenager, she would have rolled her eyes at the idea of god. now, she knows that it's more than that - it's about having a purpose without which you're adrift.

but matt doesn't need her to pacify him. and regardless, she wouldn't know how to do it even if he did.

"god sounds like an asshole to me."

he laughs again, the same broken, beaten sound, and his fingers tighten slightly around her wrist. 

"yeah... thing is, i don't think that anymore. see, i was trying to answer those prayers. to help people. it's all i ever wanted to do. when i heard all those suffering people... i thought it was god's voice, but it wasn't. all i ever heard was people in pain. and all he ever gave any us was... silence. i was deluding myself in thinking that god had something to do with it. some grand plan for me to follow, some... duty. he didn't. he doesn't. i don't get to choose what i am. but if i can't be myself again... what else can i do?"

it's silent again, but the nature of it is different. like the air is charged, rage bubbling just beneath his skin. his hold on her hand is painful now, bones grinding together, but she doesn't say anything about it or pull away. instead, she heaves out a sigh, shakes her head. 

"so what, you're just gonna give up?"

he looks startled for a moment, then furrows his brows, "no, i..." 

"because that sounds a hella lot like giving up to me. a building fell on you, matthew. a fucking building. just because you're not instantly healed doesn't mean you won't get better. be angry at god or whatever, i don't give a fuck, but if you're gonna wallow in self pity, i'm not gonna sit around and watch."

she pulls away her hand, cradling her wrist carefully. he, at least, was the decency to look sheepish. 

"listen, what i'm going to tell you stays between us, or i swear i'm going to eviscerate you with a spoon."

head tilting against towards her, he nods once, "promise," then waits. 

but it's harder than that. it's opening a can of worms she hasn't opened in years, scratching at a barely healed wound to open it up again. it's painful and frightening, and she barely knows him. she's about to tell him things she hasn't told anyone. not luke. not even trish.

"when i got away from kilgrave... the first time, it was bad. i didn't even know who I was or where i was going, because he had been in my head for so long i couldn't think for myself. and I got in a coma - car crash, went straight to the hospital. thing is, i shouldn't have been in a fucking coma, the injuries weren't that severe, i just gave up. my brain stopped working on its own because it was all too much."

unlike his need for skin contact, she shies away from it, until both of her hands are digging so hard into her thighs she'll get bruises. but she cannot look at his face, cannot see his expression. the pity and the shock and the disgust. she's had enough of those. 

"point is, you can give up and stay in a coma for months or you can get the fuck up and keep fighting."

she grimaces at the harshness of her own tone, but his hand closes around hers, much gentler this time. a small squeeze prompts her to lift up her gaze and look at him, and he's smiling. tired and small, but genuine.

"you know jones, if this whole detective thing you've got going doesn't work, you can always become a motivational speaker."

"ha, ha, very funny, counsellor. now, get your ass in bed, it's past your bedtime and i have to pump you full of drugs."

*

they sleep through the night with little issue. what talk about emotions happened between them has drained them both, but it made the tentative something between them feel more solid. she's still not sure why he finds it so easy to confide in her, but it doesn't matter. ever since meeting him, there's been a bound that was forged without their knowledge or consent, and now they're stuck together.

in retrospect, there could be worse people to be stuck with.

morning comes without the usual headache, and she's taken residence at her desk working a case, while he sits on the couch listening to her drone on about cheating wives and fitness instructors. 

it's pretty open and shut, but he intervenes from time to time, asking questions and bringing up details she pretends to have missed. 

and then hurricane danny comes. 

it's like a whirlwind hits the office, the door thrown open and dirty blond hair wild, chest winded from having ran.

jessica stops mid sentence, and both she and matt turn to danny, annoyance clear on her face. 

"what the fuck, rand you can't just -" 

"fisk cut a deal with someone. he's getting out of prison." 


	4. four.

the first time matt smiled at jessica, it was with the impetuous ease of someone startled into being amused. not because what she had said was particularly funny, but because her bold carelessness was refreshing. over time, both before his resurrection and after, jessica has learned that matt doesn't smile often - not genuinely at least. there's a razor sharpness beneath the tilt of his lips, like he can't quite contain the devil. he thinks he hides it well and, for the most part, he does. but she's been to hell; she's met the real devil. she sees through matt's facade. 

she's learned other things too, both through experience and from digging into his background. the file she has on him is far bigger than they usually are, but then again, not everyone is a blind lawyer slash batman wannabe. his deal with stick had obviously left him scarred, and for someone who displays the phisical wounds like they're badges of honour, the things he keeps hidden are a big deal.

but she doesn't coddle him. for once, she's not sure she'd know to even if she wanted, all her teeth sharpened to a point. she's refreshingly honest, bordering on rude, all of her words spit out before she has the time to properly chew them. for someone who's had people walk on egg shells around him all his life, there is something freeing in the way she does not treat him any better than she does anyone else.

they're two sides of the same coin, jessica and matthew, shaped by betrayal and anguish, made rough by all of life's mistreatment. 

so really, she understands the anger. the desire to punch a wall, to feel bones snap between his fingers. she's felt it before, viciously. it doesn't mean she's not going to punch some sense into him if she has to. 

"sit down, matt." 

"no! he... you don't get it, jessica! he's a monster. if i don't go after him -"

"so what, you're just gonna walk up to him like, 'hey fisk, long time no see, i can't really beat you up because you know... a building fell on me?' are you fucking insane?!"

danny watches, dumbfolded, as their voices raise and tempers peak. jessica's hand is a vise around matt's arm, keeping him in place. the strength she possesses buzzing beneath thin layer of skin. matt can almost see it: shining white hot like lighting, coating her body. but the thought of fisk sours up his mood quickly. 

"he's not going to stop. the one good thing - the one good thing i did was to send him to prison, and now..."

she heaves out a sigh. it's long suffering and exasperated, but he can taste her worry, and somehow that, if not anything else, calms him down a little. 

"listen, i get it. he's an asshole and you don't want him to hurt anyone else," he snorts, but it turns into a wince when she tightens her grip, "but you're not going to help anyone if you go off like that. you're gonna get yourself killed and i swear, murdock, i'm gonna kick your ass if you do."

there's an unspoken something in her words, reverberating loudly between four walls. i'm worried for you, almost. or perhaps, please don't die again. 

the silence stretches on for a couple minutes, punctured by matt's heavy breathing and danny's shuffling. the air is charged, electrical currents running through their bones at the contact point between bodies. his rage, her annoyance with his instinct to martyr himself for a greater good that won't come to fruition.

"we can work together! it's gonna be fun!"

"jesus, danny, shut your fucking mouth."

he is, as always, unconcerned with her sudden burst of vitriol. which means she's losing her touch - they've all come to know her better than she's comfortable with. 

"no, really. if we all work together, we can bring him down. you're a great p.i. luke and i have been working together. it's better than not doing anything." 

"danny, i don't think..." 

"no, he's right." jessica does not gape, but if she did, both men are smart enough not to talk about it ever. there's a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of matt's mouth, and she kinda wants to punch it off. "isn't that what you've been trying to tell me? that i'm not alone anymore?"

she sighs, then notices the gleam in danny's eyes, "don't you dare -" 

"defenders! assemble!"

and yeah, if it wasn't clear before, it is now: she's surrounded by a bunch of idiots. 

*

"they're moving him to the penthouse at the presidential hotel," karen says, tapping pristine nails against the polished surface of the desk. matt focuses on that - the tap tap tap providing little distraction from the rage he feels. he'll need that anger. burn it as fuel to keep him going. now, it's simmering quietly. 

luke swears under his breath, leaning back against the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. 

jessica's office proved too small for this impromptu meeting of theirs, so they've moved it in one of rand's offices. she's sprawled over the leather couch, matt to her right, while karen, danny and luke sit at the long mohogamy desk, papers scattered over the surface. colleen is watching from the corner of the room, concern on her face. her gaze keeps flickering to matt. 

danny is boiling with righteous rage - jessica half expects his fist to start glowing. 

"so what, he cut a deal? who would ever..."

"agent ray nadeem," she says, leaning forward to pick up a picture from the pile. she's done her homework, but that doesn't make her feel any less unprepared. "he's with the fbi. has a son, and if i'm reading him correctly, which i am, he's aiming for a promotion or something."

the _or something_ is an uncomfortable variable. luke whistles low, and matt starts fidgeting again. she places a hand over his, staying his fingers, he relaxes considerably. everyone in the room knows better than to read too much into it. 

"so we speak to this nadeem?" asks karen, her eyes gaining a gleam jessica has seen in the mirror before. it's that hunger for knowledge, that desire to solve the puzzle presented to you. her opinion on page is getting better by the minute.

danny perks up, leaning forward in his seat, "i could talk to hogarth -"

"no!" four pairs of eyes turn on her, matt's hand shifting under hers to link their fingers together and squeeze. she grits her teeth, reaches for the bottle of whiskey she's stashed near the couch. it burns down her throat, but it's a familiar burn, and it's oddly comforting. "i don't want hogarth involved with this, okay? i just..."

"you don't have to explain yourself, jess," colleen's eyes are kind, rimmed with the sort of patience that is not so much inborn as it is learned through a lot of trial and error. jessica visibly deflates, pinching the bridge of her nose. she's going soft on them - this mismatched group of idiots pretending to be sane. she fits right in with them, despite how much denial she swallow every single day. it's fine, whatever, showing any sign of emotions that aren't anger or more anger doesn't come easy for her, but she's learning.

"it's too early to do anything. we need more information, and we need..." 

"fisk is after something," matt interrupts, the first thing he's said since she dragged his ass into the elevator. "he's not... doing this out of the goodness of his heart, yeah?"

jessica snorts, not even wilting under the weight of luke's disapproving glare. it's not going to work on her, and the bastard should know that by now. "of course he isn't, murdock, fisk is a goddamn psychopath. what i was trying to say before you interrupted me is that we need a motive. we need to figure out what his angle is. without being reckless. that means no jumping to conclusions and no stupid suicide missions."

he's smart enough to look contrite, if only because his very very fragile bones are currently in her very very strong hand. she shares a look with karen, who looks equally amused and impressed. not that jessica needs any approval.

"so what's the plan?" luke asks, gaze shifting between jessica and matt. the big question indeed. she looks over the papers on the desk, all the information she could find on fbi agents and fisk, news articles karen has provided. they have twelve hours until they move him, and a little less than that to figure something out. nadeem's face stares back at her, frozen in a snapshot. fisk, in all his bulbous glory, dressed in prison clothes. and the presidential hotel, no doubt swarming with security by now, circled by an angry mob like hungry beasts waiting for the prey to come out. those people are out for blood. she can relate.

"page, see if you can land an interview with anyone in charge. don't tell them where you've got your information from, someone _from inside_ tipped you." karen's smile is definitely predatory - jessica is beginning to understand what matt saw in her. "we should probably let them move him. if there's something he wants, he's not going to do it from prison. luke... are you buddies with any of the poor bastards he shared a cell with?"

"i'll see what i can find," he says, but he sounds less than thrilled. no blaming him there.

"and matt?"

he had been sulking, pouting in a way that feels more petulant toddler than devil of hell's kitchen, but he perks up at the sound of his name. she grins, wide and evil. 

"you're on bedrest until claire gives you the all clear. don't be an idiot."

it's gratifying, a little. he frowns at her, and colleen laughs, and just like that the tension is broken, shattering into millions of pieces. 

*

it's four in the morning when she finds him in the kitchen. he's walking between the table and the fridge, tapping at furniture as he goes. calibrating his senses or something equally as weird, she guesses. but... he's walking, which is a lot of progress from almost crawling to her bathroom a few days ago, and, in the great scheme of things, pretty impressive for a dude who cheated death. not for the first time, from what she has gleaned.

"can't sleep?" the corner of his lips is curled into a smile, unseeing gaze managing to pinpoint her left shoulder. hearing's getting better, then. claire has still to say he's fine enough to go out on his own, but it probably won't be long. the realisation leaves jessica feeling strangely hollow.

"yeah. something like that." it's not the whole truth, but she can't exactly tell him that she's woken up in a cold sweat after seeing him die. again. of course, he sees through her lie, but lets her have it. there are moments when prying is needed. this isn't one of them. "why are you..." she gestures vaguely around the kitchen, then remembers he can't see her, "... being weird?"

it startles a laugh from him, and she's tired enough to join in, until they're having a laughing fit. at four in the morning. in her kitchen. great, she's going crazy too. 

"it's getting better," the scrape of metal on hardwood is too loud even to jessica's years, but matthew bites back the wince to sit down in the chair instead. she follows his example, although less noisily. "i... want to help. with fisk, y'know? i don't feel good letting all of you do everything. especially since it's my battle you're fighting."

"bullshit," she reaches to poke at his shoulder, not particularly gently, but she's not being kind. "fisk is a threat to everyone, right? so they're all trying to stop him because it involves them too."

"but not you?"

"nah. i'm just helping out a blind dude because he has the nasty habit of biting more than she can fucking chew. real pain in my ass, too."

he laughs again, but it's more muted that the bright colours his previous one painted behind her eyelids. 

it's easy enough from there. like a moment stolen from time, it stretches, elastic, engulfs the two of them, shields them away from harsh neon lights and honking cars. fisk is still out, and they've got so much shit to sort through before even beginning to think about fixing it, but for a fraction of a second, everything's fine.

on the other side of the city there's a car crash. agent pointdexter cocks his gun and spits out blood. chaos follows. 


End file.
